


Injury

by Templeton (StAnni)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/Templeton
Summary: The second time had been another mistake, and the third as well.  By the fourth it was fully intentional.  Nameless blonde guy had given him his name and his number and they met up in the guilty alleyway behind the bar. After the sixth time Stiles stopped counting.





	Injury

“Why all of a sudden?”  
Stiles prepared for the question because he knows Derek would find it strange that he would want to go on a pack weekend. He had gone to great efforts to avoid them in the the past and Derek was nothing if not perpetually suspicious.   
“Because I’ve never been.”  
It’s not good enough and Stiles knows – but he also knows not to push it too hard. He knows to keep it light. “I don’t have anytihng else going on this weekend, so.”  
Derek takes a moment and then shrugs as he opens the fridge to get out two beers. He hands one to Stiles.  
“You’ve never wanted to go before.” It’s not accusatory. It’s just a statement. Stiles decides that the only way to divert Derek may be to pretend to take it the wrong way.  
“I want to go now. What, am I not allowed to go?”  
The beer is icy cold and does a half-way good job of alleviating the guilt boiling in his gut. Derek glances at him, it’s plain and unaware – it almost hurts. He smirks and shrugs “Okay, whatever. Pizza still okay?”  
And Stiles nods, watching as Derek leans against the kitchen counter, frowning at the options on the menu.

It’s about three AM when Derek nudges at him, pulls him in by the waist and sucks a searing kiss to his jaw.  
He freezes, his heart constricting “Stop”  
Derek huffs and tries again and Stiles has to elbow him, just a bit too hard.  
“Seriously, man. I don’t feel up to it”  
Derek doesn’t sulk but slaps Stiles’ ass and huffs as he rolls onto his back again.  
“Fine, sleep, grandpa.”  
Stiles pretends to sleep but doesn’t, not until long after he hears Derek’s light snoring behind him.

About two years ago when Stiles’ dad remarried and they had their first serious fight when Derek didn’t want to attend the wedding as Stiles’ date. It was a fight that ended with Stiles shoving his clothes into a duffel bag and driving to Scott’s at one in the morning. They didn’t speak for two weeks and after the wedding reception Stiles, drunk and depressed, poured himself into his childhood bed and woke up with the bulky heat of Derek next to him, solid and quiet, the following morning.   
“I won’t forgive you for this, you know” he mumbled as Derek pulled him close, rolled his pants down.  
After Stiles bucked up into Derek’s mouth and let go with a stifled groan about five minutes later, Derek finally answered – his tone so serious “I’m sorry.”

The pack weekend is a quarterly thing with the rest of the wolves in Derek’s pack. The reason why Stiles has successfully avoided going has more to do with the company than with the fact that it is camping – an activity that Stiles thoroughly hates. The pack consists of Derek and four other wolves. Stiles doesn’t really know any of them too well, but knows the youngest female, Jessica, just enough to engage in short conversation about school. She is sixteen , shy and looks at Derek with such devout reverence that Stiles finds it (privately) ridiculous. The other guys, three wolves more around Derek’s age than Stiles’, have never spoken to Stiles more than a the usual gruff “hey” and “later”. 

When it started, which was four months ago, it was supposed to be a once-off thing – just a mistake, just an error in judgment. Stiles had pushed the nameless blonde down to his knees and pushed himself sloppily, desperately past his soft parted lips. “I’m probably not gonna last…” He exhaled when he felt the guy’s warm mouth close around him. He didn’t last. After a minute he saw white and came with a stifled grunt, feeling the guy swallow him down. It was dirty and messy and there was no, absolutely no, reasonable excuse for it – no fight, no irritation. They both had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, equally inebriated. 

Derek finishes setting up their tent and Stiles immediately goes inside, flopping down on the sleeping bags. “We’re going to go for a run.” Derek says, taking off his jacket. Stiles nods and catches the hem of the jacket as Derek tosses it. It smells like Derek, and for a moment Stiles feels like it is three months ago – back before everything went to shit. “You wanna join?” Derek smiles because he already knows the answer and Stiles sits up, the smell of the jacket, the smell of his boyfriend making his heart contract guiltily. “Why don’t you stay with me, let the pack run.”  
Derek chuckles and sighs when Stiles hooks his fingers into his belt. “Hey Ambrose!” Derek yells over his shoulder “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up!”   
After a few moments of rustling outside they are alone and Derek pulls off his shirt, grinning. “You better be serious, kid.”

They haven’t been together in a week and it is hard, almost impossible, for Stiles not to confess. Every time Derek runs his fingers over his mouth he wants to tell him, with every thrust he wants to spread himself more open, let the truth pour from his lips and allow Derek to trample him, take his inevitable anger out on him. But Stiles doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t make a sound and comes, with a sob, against Derek’s shoulder. Derek’s voice is caught, out of breath “Stiles?” There is worry there and Stiles avoids meeting his eyes, instead clutches to his shoulder as Derek slows his thrusts. “I’m good, I’m good, please…don’t stop.”

Derek does go out to catch up to the rest of the pack later and Stiles is left in the setting dusk, staring at the fire that Derek started before he left. The cold flame of the fire stares back and he feels numb and sick to the core at once – eaten out by his infection. 

The second time had been another mistake, and the third as well. By the fourth it was fully intentional. Nameless blonde guy had given him his name and his number and they met up in the guilty alleyway behind the bar. After the sixth time Stiles stopped counting.

When Derek returns with the rest of the pack he crouches down next to Stiles in front of the fire. His skin is slick with sweat and he smells of river water. “You okay?”  
Stiles doesn’t nod at first and then shrugs. Half truths, these days are all about half truths. “Yeah, whatever.” Stiles tries not to see the uncertain look on his boyfriend’s face - “Are you mad or something?” and gets up before Derek can touch his arm “I’m going for a walk.” 

When he comes back into the tent more than an hour later Derek is frowns up at him, closing the book he is reading. “Good walk?”   
Stiles nods and turns away as he pulls off his jacket and then his shirt. He sighs when he feels Derek’s warm fingers on his side. “Come on man, I’m still sore from this afternoon.” And Derek’s fingers are gone. It’s cruel and Stiles knows that it is unfair. He doesn’t face Derek but can hear him turn on his side, away from him. “Night.”   
Stiles lies down on the covers. “Night.” 

After work on Monday Derek is not in the apartment when Stiles gets home and he doesn’t answer his phone either. 

Panic flashes through his veins like lightning.

When Stiles finds him, hours later, Derek is in the bar, the old bar they used to go to when Derek was still in the midtown apartment, sitting by himself at the counter. He’s not drunk but he is edging close – staring dully at the near empty tumbler in front of him.   
After six years together Stiles would know to leave it alone – to allow Derek some space but this a bridge he has previously crossed – he doesn’t know whether Derek will come back to him. So he can’t leave it.

He sits down quietly and even though his eyes move slightly, Derek doesn’t look at him. After three seconds of painful silence Derek is the one to break it.   
“Your boyfriend came by the apartment. Looking for you.”  
Stiles is quiet, his heart stops. He’s not going to be able to deny it, concoct a lie out of it.   
“You’re my boyfriend.”  
Derek smirks and there is a laugh, almost light – but thin, uneven and his eyebrows lifts for just a second. In that moment it is the saddest Stiles has ever seen him. “Really.”   
Derek clears his throat and lifts the glass to his lips, pausing before he swallows.  
“Need help packing your shit, kid?”  
It’s gruff and hurt but Stiles can’t help but smirk. The barman puts another glass of brown liquid in front of Derek and Stiles indicates for one as well.   
Stiles knows that Derek is waiting and he struggles to find the words. “It got...it was just this thing that got out of hand.” is what he manages and not even close to what he really wants to say. Although he doesn’t know what he wants to say. How do you apologise for something you can’t face about yourself? 

Derek, to his credit, doesn’t say anything – doesn’t seem to even acknowledge it – like he is giving Stiles another go. Try something better. 

“It started a few months ago. It happened a few times. It wasn’t anything you did…” And at that he can’t go on. He doesn’t have the voice to. Derek doesn’t move – taking it in quietly. Stiles downs the drink that the barman puts in front of him and turns to Derek, fully, desperate. “It was my fault. It wasn’t anything you did. It was me. I’m sorry.” 

Flat. Like apologising after driving over someone’s favourite pet. Like putting ice on a knife wound.

Derek still doesn’t look at him, but he speaks – his voice low and even. He doesn’t even sound upset. He sounds tired.  
“That’s not even a reason. It’s not even an excuse.”   
“I have no excuse.”  
And then Derek does look at him – dead in the eye, the sullen acceptance like a punch to Stiles’ gut. “So what now?”  
The air is thick and Stiles feels the sides of his life closing in. Nothing is going to be the same after this and there is no answer that will quell the fires that he has started in their life. His question is as forlorn as the question it follows “Will you forgive me?”  
There is a pause and Derek looks away again, but not before Stiles can see the quiet shift in his eyes – the despair and resignation. It’s plain and soft “I don’t have a choice, Stiles.” 

The days that follow are mostly lighter, as if they both forget about the cracks in their mast, the days when they are truly happy and oblivious. But the darker times seem just so much darker, so much longer – the old wound leaking poison when they are not paying attention. 

When the next pack weekend looms Stiles doesn’t know how to ask or what to ask – whether he should go or not. Derek grows more taciturn and aloof as it draws closer.   
“Should I go?” is all Stiles can think of asking. “I can go, if you want me to go. I can also stay…”   
The look Derek gives him, like he is trying to figure out what is the right way to answer – what is the right answer, weighs very heavily on Stiles’ heart. “I don’t know, if you want.” And it means nothing, it means especially everything since for a week they have barely touched each other, barely spoken.  
“I can. If you want.”  
And it is the emptiest circle that chafes at the wound that is ever fresh and ever healed at once. So Derek leaves and Stiles follows, locking the door of the apartment behind them and they are quiet on the way up to the woods and Derek avoids being alone with him the whole time they are there. 

The moment they get back, the moment that Stiles closes the door behind them and accepts, quietly, that they have nothing left – in that moment Derek pushes Stiles back against the door, kisses him deeply – wantonly, and shoves his big hand between them, unzipping, pushing, grabbing and turning Stiles roughly by his hips.

Stiles steadies himself against the doorframe and holds still as Derek roughly pulling his jeans down before pushing his split slick head in without preparation. It is painful and heady it and it makes Stiles feel sick and vindicated. Stiles pushes back against the rhythm, breathing out with every ragged thrust inside and Derek comes after a short while, grabbing Stiles against him as he pulses – scorching hot, between Stiles’ thighs.   
For the briefest moment it feels as if Derek is unsure – his body moving away ever so slightly.   
Despair pools dark and cold in Stiles’ gun before Derek puts a warm hand around his neck, pulling him close again. “We need to get back on track. We need to.” And Stiles nods, grabbing at the strong arm at his neck. “Yeah, yeah.”

They don’t get back on track.

Derek wants to know, a months later, what exactly Stiles did with “his boyfriend”, and it is not a request that lets up. Derek becomes frustrated, morose, insistent, yanking over the living room table – sending his laptop flying against the wall. “It’s not up to you! You do not get to decide what I should know or not know!”   
“Do you want to make things worse?! Do you even want things to get better?!”

Maybe Derek doesn’t want things to get better. Maybe things can’t get better after a betrayal of this nature.

So Stiles doesn’t tell Derek at first and then later, just to lower the volume rising in his head, just to breathe, for one second, he tells him. He tells Derek everything.

The next time the pack weekend rolls by Stiles doesn’t ask to go. Derek is on the landing, smoking – a new habit – his bag against the front door, ready to leave as soon as Jessica calls up.

Stiles comes out, lighting a cigarette of his own. “Lydia’s in town tonight.”   
Derek won’t believe him, but it’s the truth. “You guys have plans?” It doesn’t sound accusatory, it doesn’t sound like anything. They’re strangers now.  
“Yeah.”

The buzzer rings.  
Derek glances at Stiles before he flicks his cigarette to the streets below. His eyes are hooded, careful. Stiles hasn’t seen Derek unguarded in months.   
“That’s Jess. I’ll see you.”

And he leaves.


End file.
